The Tennis Tutor

Adria sprawls across her bed with the laptop balanced on her thighs when Judy's name flashes on her screen. She scrambles to answer, pulse quickening. On the line Judy explains she’s landed some tennis gig but can’t serve to save her life. Adria hears herself blurt that she’s basically a pro, years on the court. The lie sits heavy the second Judy asks for a lesson. They agree to meet at the courts. As soon as the call ends, Adria’s cursing under her breath and Googling forehand grips. She can’t blow this; Judy’s the crush she’s nursed for months. An hour later they’re walking off the court in crisp whites, rackets slung over their shoulders. Judy’s laughing about how hard the sport must be if someone like Adria’s winded. Adria keeps the fib alive until Judy asks to borrow her shower—the pipes at her place are busted. Inside Adria is reaching for a towel when Judy steps close and stops her with a hand on her wrist. “I lied,” Judy murmurs. “My shower’s fine. I just wanted an excuse to be around you.” Heat flares between them. Adria admits the tennis stunt was pure invention too, but she’s been crazy about Judy for ages. The confession barely lands before their mouths meet, tentative at first, then open and greedy. Hands shove skirts aside, teeth scrape collarbones, fingers slick through soaked lace. They sink to the bed, thighs parting, tongues drawing tight desperate circles until each girl jerks and gasps her way through a shaking orgasm. Later Adria mumbles she still can’t hold a racket to save her life. Judy just laughs into her neck and pulls her closer.